Painting Bones in the Sky
by blackwater11
Summary: "Art is triumph over chaos." Molly tries to come to terms with the devastation and carnage she witnessed up at the mountain check point the only way she knows how.
1. Chapter 1

**Painting Bones in the Sky**

 **"** **Art is the triumph over chaos" John Cheever**

Molly was sat alone perched on the edge of the stage with an open sketchpad in her lap, her bare leg swung back and forth in front of her as her sandaled foot kicked random patterns in the dry Afghan dust. Her mind remained entirely focused on the lines and strokes of her pencil as she tried to capture the first few minutes of dawn at the FOB. She'd lost count of the times her skilled fingers had traced the outlines of the now familiar mountain range in front of her as she tried day after day, to capture the pinkish hue of the hazy sun as it chased its way across the sky, bleeding from a deep red, through to purple, blue and finally to an inky indigo as the last traces of the night recede slowly below the horizon.

It was one of the things that drew her to art in the first place. Despite it being one of the only things she was ever good at in school, Molly was drawn to the freedom it gave her. There were no rules, no limitations to what she could create or the moments and memories she could capture on the page. Art became her only escape from reality; be it the horrifying world of war or the dysfunctional chaos of her home life in Newham. Through her art Molly was able to regain a calmness and a stillness in her nut that helped her cope with the emotional turmoil her daily life had become. Every picture she drew told a story, whether it be the Afghan landscape at dusk, the smiling faces of Afghan children as they huddled in the dirt playing Sang Chill Bazi, or the wistful expressions of Two Section as they each take a quiet solitary moment to read their letters from home. Each line and curve added meaning in the same way a writer does when they carefully choose a particular word or phrase to evoke an emotion in the reader.

Molly was so absorbed in her activity that she failed to notice the lone figure creep silently around the perimeter of the stage towards her. It wasn't until a shadow fell across the page and a hand reached out to steel one of her pencils that she looked up with a furious "Oi!" Emerald eyes ablaze with anger, clashed with the warm laughing gaze of Captain James who stood with his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Oh sorry Boss, I thought you was Sahail," Molly muttered in chagrin as she watched Captain James settle himself next to her and pull a clean sheet of paper towards him. "What you mean you wouldn't share your art supplies with Sahail?" Captain James asked as he raised an indignant eyebrow in her direction, a look of disbelief on his face.

"No way! I ain't letting him dip his brush in me paint pallet." Captain James bit back a laugh as he shook his head at her appalled response. "I take it that's not meant to be a euphemism Dawes?"

"If I knew what one of them was Sir I'd let you know." Captain James gave a light chuckle as he reached out and ran his finger along the spine of her sketchpad before tilting his head slightly in a silent question. Molly rolled her pencil back and forth between her fingers nervously as she gave a slight nod, pushing the book towards him. "I didn't know you drew Dawes," Captain James spoke quietly as he leafed through her sketchbook, his touch feather light along the pages as if he feared they would break under his fingertips. Molly shrugged lightly growing uncomfortable with the sudden change in topic. "I s'pose it's me way of keeping a record of everything that happens around me, the things I see and people I meet like. It's a bit like a diary only with no pictures. I find it easier to show my feelings an' emotions through a drawin' than I do with words. I ain't so good at using them to express how I feel see."

"So if you're using your sketchbook to capture memories of the places and people you meet, does that mean I'm in here?" James asked cheekily as Molly reached out and snatched the book from his grasp giving his leg a gentle nudge.

"Why you offering to pose for me Boss?" Molly shot back with a smirk, not missing a beat. Captain James snorted, "If you're lucky Dawes."

"Aww. An here I was thinkin' you was gunna let me pull a Jack Dawson on you Boss. Have you all stretched out on the bonnet of your jeep as you posed with your precious headset and coffee mug."

"Don't push your luck Dawesy. You know I'm not a fully functioning soldier until I've had my first shot of coffee in the morning." James muttered as a hint of a blush coloured his already tanned cheeks. Now it was Molly's turn to roll her eyes as she muttered, "Yeah yeah Boss, whatever you say." The two lapsed into a comfortable silence as Molly's attention returned to her sketch pad. Hearing a light scratching noise beside her, Molly looked up to find the Bossman sketching something on the piece of paper he'd stolen earlier. "Oi! What ya doin'?"

"Returning the favour. The light is quite good where you're sat, no wonder you like this spot so much. Does this rank higher or lower than your hiding place on top the shitter I wonder?" Molly's mouth dropped slightly. She though nobody knew about her secret spot. Looks like she might gunna need to find a new one. Heaven forbid the lads find her. She'd never get a moments peace with them asking for after sun and pop tarts all the time.

"Don't worry Dawes, your secret is safe with me."

"Cheers Boss!"

"So are you going to show me my portrait or what Dawes?" Molly eyed him sceptically, her hand coming to rest protectively on her sketch pad, her fingers twiddling her pencil back and forth as she pondered his request. She didn't show her work to a lot of people, preferring to keep it private. The question is, could the Bossman be trusted with the most important part of herself? Sensing her hesitation, Captain James gave her a gently nudge as he placed a reassuring hand on top of hers. "I'll tell you what, if you show me your drawing I'll show you mine and I promise I'll adore you for always."

"Always Boss?" Molly risks a look at him, sensing a sudden shift in the atmosphere between them. The Bossman gently touches her hand and entwines his fingers around hers, both their eyes drawn to their clasped fingers as he caresses each of her fingers in turn. Both were aware that something had shifted in their relationship; that the two of them were dancing perilously close to a red line they knew they shouldn't cross. Molly looked up and her breath caught. The early morning sun dipped behind a cloud casting his face in shadow. His day old stubble only enhancing his chiselled features and the strong line of his jaw and Molly was struck by a sudden stab of envy at how perfect and put together he looked so early in the morning. He truly was a handsome man; an artist's dream muse.

The moment was broken as an urgent shout from Captain Azizi infiltrated their little bubble and their connection was lost. Captain James drops Molly's hand and jumps to his feet desperate to put some distance between them. They share one last fleeting look before he turns striding hurriedly towards the communications tent where Azizi is stood waiting. Watching them as they conversed in low voices, their heads bent close together Molly's stomach twisted with dread. The joking, playful Bossman was gone and the authoritative, no nonsense Captain was back. He looked unusually ruffled, clearly worried and on edge about something as he yelled for Kinders. Something didn't feel right. The Boss turned and regarded Molly gravely. "I'm gunna need a medic."

"What's happened Boss?" Molly watches in concern as they start gathering things together. The air became suddenly thick with tension and anticipation; a feeling that set Molly's teeth on edge. "There may well have been an incident up at the mountain pass," The Boss called out before turning to call once more for Kinders who gave a slight nod and yelled for two section to double in and dress in full kit. Sensing the sudden urgency in everyone's frantic movements, Molly dashed after Kinders to get kitted out knowing full well her peaceful morning had just done down the shitter.

Later that evening, Molly lay in her pit staring unblinkingly up at the roof of the tent. The oppressive heat and the unsettling events of the day left Molly unable to sleep. Every time she shut her eyes the horrifying images of the lifeless bodies of the ANA's played over and over on the inside of her closed eyelids like a bad horror film she couldn't turn off. Overcome with a sudden feeling of being trapped, Molly blew out a frustrated breath as she sat up, fighting her way out of her sleeping bag that had become tangled around her flailing limbs. Pulling on her trainers and grabbing her latest care package and her riffle, Molly slipped through the gap in the tent flap and made her way through the eerily quiet camp. She passed the darkened med tent, skirted her way past the Bossman's tent, pausing momentarily when she saw a shaft of light through the window, before continuing on until she reached the roof of the shitter. Being careful to balance her package and her rifle under her arm she climbed the roof, exhaling a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding as she paused to take in the stars above her.

Sitting cross-legged, Molly unwrapped her package. Putting the letters to one side, Molly peered curiously into the bottom of the box and pulls out a bundle tied together with string. Carefully pulling the ends apart Molly found several thick sticks of new charcoal and some chalk pastels; her favourite materials to work with. As she runs her fingers along the rough, uneven edges of the charcoal thoughtfully, her eyes focus on the wide empty white space under her feet. The large blank white canvas under her feet. As she begins to feel the familiar itch in her fingers Molly dropped to her knees and ran the thick stick of chalk along the floor in big broad strokes.

Once she started she found she couldn't stop. Using wide, sure arm movements, Molly sketched the stark mountains of the check point overshadowed by a raging ball of angry fire. She drew rows of figures as they lay sprawled across the barren landscape, swimming in a sea of green khaki and blood. Gathering momentum now, Molly drew faster and faster, unable to stop, as she took the pictures from her head and transported them onto the floor beneath her. Molly drew death and carnage as she outlined the lifeless face of Rolex boy, his limp wrist dripping with blood and swarming with maggots and flies, his fake Rolex watch glittering mockingly every time it caught the light of the sun. She drew the debris of the obliterated bunker that was destroyed in a cloud of fire and smoke followed by explosions and a shower of bullets, ending in the inevitable rows of body bags lined along the roadside. Molly outlined the cold lifeless faces of the insurgents; the contorted faces of the injured, their expressions etched with pain and suffering with their limbs burnt and mangled or in some cases missing altogether.

Slowly but surely the stark white floor soon became filled with Molly's memories and experiences from the tour so far as she worked her way across the roof top letting all her anger and frustration pour though her fingertips onto the concrete. At some point she became aware of movement behind her but she barely registered the lads when they picked up her dis-guarded stubs of pastels to add their own contributions to the drawings. Not long after Molly became aware that Captain James had also arrived, but he stands to the side watching and waiting, saying nothing as he observes her as she works. As Molly finished shading the contours of Bashira's terrified face, her eyes wide and shining with fear and unshed tears, Molly recalls her broken voice asking if she was going to die. A sudden gentle voice broke into her revere, hesitant and unsure, as if trying to calm a skittish deer. "Dawes?" Molly knew that voice anywhere but ignored it as she used her fingers to blur the edges of the explosion caused by Bashira's bomb vest. "Dawes enough! You can stop now." This time the stern tone was accompanied by a firm grip on Molly's wrist halting her movements. Molly looked around dazed and for the first time registers that the entirety of Two Section are peering over the edge of the roof watching her with concern. Looking down Molly was surprised to find her hands clenched into fists, and her limbs shaking slightly. As she clenches her fists the last stubs of charcoal and pastels crumble to dust under the pressure and scatter in the breeze as they slip through her fingers.

"I couldn't sleep," she stutters as she finally let her gaze rest on the Boss as he crouches next to her. His body is shrouded almost completely in shadow. As she watches him, Molly feels suddenly uneasy in his presence. Up here in the dark, with only the light of the moon, she is unable to read him and she wonders, not for the first time, what he must be thinking as he looks at her. His face is shadowed, the moonlight casting just enough light to catch the edge of his cheekbones, the tip of his nose and the crease between his eyebrows that seemed to be a permanent fixture as of late. "I didn't mean for this to happen Boss. I only came up here to read me letter. One minute I was lookin at the stars an' the next minute I had the charcoal in me hand and I couldn't seem to stop meself."

"It's ok Dawes. We're going to get you down alright." Giving a tired nod she gives a start as she feels herself being swept up into his arms as he carries her to the edge of the roof where Kinders is stood waiting. Issuing a set of whispered instructions to Smurf and Fingers, The Bossman gently hands her into the arms of Kinders as he clambers down from the roof and leads the way towards the med tent. Molly doesn't say a word as Kinders gently deposits her on her cot whilst the Boss closes the tent flap to give them some privacy. Molly sits unmoving on her cot her gaze glued to her fingers as she listens to the two men move around her. She rubs the tips together gently to try and remove the red chalky residue that stains her fingers like blood. She rubs her hands together faster and sucks in a breath when the stain remains. "It won't come off," she mumbles so softly that Kinders and the Boss move in closer hearing the frantic edge to her voice. "Molls?" Kinders asks as he watches her wring her hands together in agitation. "It won't come off!" Molly was beginning to panic now, her voice rising as her frantic eyes sought out those of her Boss. "Bossman it won't come off. Get it off. Please! Get it off!"

Captain James moved forward to clasp both of Molly's hands in one of his own as he reaches out for the bowl of warm water Kinders handed him. Gently, he begins to wash the dust from her hands and arms until the water runs a dark red. "It's ok Dawes it's just chalk. You're fine. Safe. Just breathe. That's it in and out, nice and slow. Keep your eyes on Kinders alright." After a few minutes of steady breathing Molly could feel her body start to return to normal as she felt the adrenalin leave her system. "Do you ever wish you had a Tardis?" Molly asked softly. The two soldiers eyed each other, unsure of who she was addressing. "Wouldn't it be easier if we could just go back and sort the whole mess out? They were just kids Boss! They shot my mate Rolex boy point blank. It ain't fair!" She cried, her frustration evident in her tone.

"I know you're upset Dawes."

"I ain't upset Boss. I'm pissed off! I ain't soft you know," she resorts with a huff, the air leaving her like a deflated balloon. The Boss cracks a small smile, glad to see the old Dawes was still in there somewhere.

"I know its hard Dawes but there was nothing you could have done. You have to try and not think too much. Stay focused on the job your bloody good at and you'll be fine. You're doing an amazing job." Molly sighs as she leans her head back against the pillow enjoying gentle way the Boss patted her arms and hands dry. "I'm tired Boss. Ain't you tired?" As her eyes flutter shut, the Boss carefully manoeuvres Molly's body so she was lying flat on her back, ignoring her soft mumble of protest. "Just Sleep Dawes. Everything will be alright in the morning. I promise," he whispered as he unlaced her trainers and pulled them carefully off her feet. As he takes a step back Kinders gently lays a blanked over her shoulders.

"You reckon she'll be alright Boss?" Kingers asks quietly as he watches Molly with concern. Seeing Molly come undone had clearly rattled him.

"She'll be fine Kinders don't worry. Dawes is strong. Everyone is entitled to have a funny five minutes every now and then so long as they aren't carrying a loaded weapon. Dawes' way of dealing with what she's seen is actually not a bad way to go about it. Nobody was hurt. As long as we stick together and look out for each other we'll all be fine and home by Christmas. I'll be sure to debrief Major Beck though. We wouldn't want him thinking we've got Banksey hiding in our midst would we." With that he stands and stretches his arms above his head before bringing hims hand down to rub the back of his neck as he tries to unwind the knot that had formed there in the last twenty four hours.

"We ok to leave her?" Kinders asks as he moves to the exit.

"Yeah but I'll stay for a bit until she settles then I'll hit my pit. I doubt I'll be able to sleep right now anyway. I can just as easily finish some paperwork here."

"We don't mind taking it in turns Boss," came the quiet voice of Dangles from the doorway where he was flanked by the rest of two section. "Yeah Boss. Dawesy is always looking after us, the least we can do is return the favour and be there when she needs us," Mansfield added. The Boss eyed Kinders who gave a shrug when he raised his eyebrow slightly in question. With a nod of approval he gestured to the door. "Alright lads. I'll stay for a bit then I think I'll leave you to it. I'm sure that now she's asleep Dawes will be fine." The lads nod and quietly file out. As the Boss turned around to settle himself in the chair next to Molly's bed he gives a start when a quiet, yet sarcastic voice quips, "They're a right bunch on knights in shining khaki ain't they Boss."

"Were you awake the whole time Dawes?" Captain James asked incredulously as he leans back in his chair his long legs stretched out in front of him. He couldn't help but grin as he sees the familiar spark of mischief return to her eyes. "I weren't asleep. Just resting me eyes."

"You alight Dawes? Do you need to speak to someone?" He asked quietly as his gaze turns serious once more as he takes in the dark circles under her eyes and the look of utter exhaustion on her face.

"I'm talking to you ain't I?! As the boss raises an eyebrow in challenge she continues. "I'll be fine Boss don't worry. I am sorry about earlier though," she mutters quietly as her eyes drop to her hands.

"It's fine Dawes. You had us all worried that's all. Despite what you might think the boys care about you."

"I know that Boss. I do. It just takes a bit of getting used to that's all. I ain't used to people caring about me I guess. It's nice though. Don't tell them I said that though. Their egos are big enough as it is." She joked quietly as she tried to fight a yawn, without success.

"Dawes?" The Boss whispered quietly drawing her attention back to him.

"Boss?" she asked sleepily, her eyes already fluttering shut.

"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," he whispered back fondly.

"Yes Boss. Night Boss." With that she gives a weak salute and is asleep before her arm hits the mattress under the watchful eye of the Bossman.

A/N: this one shot takes place after the events at the beginning of episode three. It was inspired by a scene id read from a book called just one damn thing after another by Jodi Taylor. I highly recommend it. There's history, time travel, humour and tea. What's not to like?


	2. Sixteen shades of red between the clock

**Sixteen Shades of Red between the Clock and the Bed**

The steady persistent ticking of the clock was beginning to set Molly's teeth on edge; a harsh reminder that time is a precious commodity that waits for no man. Not that Molly needs a reminder. She is fully aware of how fickle a mistress time can be when it comes to measuring the worth of those lives at war. The hands keep turning and life keeps moving ever steadily forward. No matter how desperately we wish to rewind and return to when everything was normal, the sands of time continue to flow as bitter as the ashes of regret and guilt until we're left with nothing but our mistakes and regrets; a handful of useless maybes and what ifs.

Shifting uncomfortably on the stiff leather sofa, Molly grips her pencil tighter as she does her best to avoid meeting the steady, almost penetrating, gaze of the therapist sat across from her as she ignores another probing question. Instead, Molly draws absently on the piece of paper in front of her in a bid to block it all out. She's gotten pretty good at this game of pretend of late, wielding her silence like a weapon against the terrors that lurk within the shadows of her subconscious threatening to shatter the fragile silence around them the minute she opens her mouth. What good will talking about it do anyway? It won't change anything. "Molly? Do you know why you're here today?"

Molly looks up from her sketch pad and rubs her face wearily. She'd slept fitfully since she'd been home, her mind refusing to switch off as memories repeated over and over in her head. Her voice was flat and matter of fact as she mutters, "Caz Major Beck think's I'm mad. I ain't though. All I meant was if I'd got shot then everything would have been alright. It were my fault."

"Sometimes when we've been exposed to a traumatic event or witness serious injury, death or the threat of serious injury or death, we experience an overwhelming array of emotions that we can't always process and deal with at the time. Helplessness, guilt, horror or intense fear for example. Can you think of a particular event that may have caused you to feel any of those? Something that may have ignited worry or concern in Major Beck, resulting in you being here today?"

"I ain't bein' funny or out but it's war innit. It's all bleedin' traumatic. That don't mean I'm incapable of doin' me job." Molly's response was dismissive and cold. Her defences had come up, her emotions locked behind a solid wall of indifference as her hand moves faster over the page in her lap. The therapist probed gently, her eyes remaining focused on the micro expressions of Molly's tense face, looking for any changes in her expression that might give a hint as to how Molly was feeling. With a soft defeated sigh the therapist opens Molly's file and begins to skim its contents. "Nobody is saying you aren't good at your job. We have a duty of care to make sure you're mentally fit enough to continue performing your duties. This is just routine. You've had a tough few months. We just want to make sure you're alright." Massaging her forehead the therapist sighed, choosing the next few words carefully. "Ok. Clearly talking isn't getting us anywhere. You're CO has suggested we try a different approach that might be more beneficial to you. What do you say?" Molly's head snaps up in astonishment, a spark of fire ignites in her eyes, the vibrant sparkle returning once more to the vivid green irises.

"The Bossman? He's alright? What did he say?" Fearing she'd somehow given too much away, she snapped her mouth closed and regarded the therapist wearily. "I'm not your enemy Molly. Whatever you say within these four walls is in the strictest of confidence. Captain James happened to mentioned in his report that you're an artist and you find it helps you cope when you're stressed. Do you find drawing helps you make sense of the things you saw when you were deployed?" Molly gives a hesitant nod as she pulls her sketchpad towards her protectively. "I've always loved drawin' like. Back home, when things got bad, I'd be able to draw to help me forget. I dunno how but as soon as I pick up a pencil or whatever, if feels like it's a part of me. It's like the world around me no longer exists. What's important is just me and the image of what I'm creating. Everything else just fades away. It happened out in Afghan. There was an incident, a green on green up in the mountains and I had to identify some bodies, just kids they were. I couldn't switch off at night and ended up sat on the roof of the shitter looking at the stars. One minute I was staring at the darkness, the next, the Bossman was there and the entire floor of the roof was covered in my drawings."

"Sometimes when we experience something traumatic, we tend to react just to get through the experience without giving us time to process and deal with the emotions we felt. What you've been doing is your way of reacting to the trauma. You're unconsciously triggering sensory memories when you hear particular sounds, smells or sights that are reminiscent of a trauma you've experienced. I don't know if you've realised but as you've been sat here you have been drawing shapes and lines in your pad. Were you aware you were doing it?" Molly blinks and stares in confusion at the page in front of her. It takes her a moment to realise that the strips of green and black and the jumble of circles, lines, letters and numbers do actually make sense. O+ Capt JA9253. Well shittin' hell. How was she going to get out of this one? Molly's eyes fly up to meet the therapist's knowing gaze and she swallows nervously. Ignoring the exchange, the therapist regards Molly thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Molly? Do you think you're up for trying a little experiment?" At Molly's hesitant nod she continues. "I'm going to say a few words to prompt you and I want you to draw whatever comes into your mind. I'd like to see if we can identify some of your triggers. Then when you're done we'll look at what you've drawn and try and unpick how you were feeling. How does that sound?"

"Sounds alright. So you won't ask me no more questions?" The therapist smiles sympathetically at her. "Nice try. I promise I won't question you whilst you're drawing but we are going to have to talk me through your drawings, explain how you were feeling or thinking at some point. What do you say?" Molly chewed her lip thoughtfully as she eyed the pile of paper the therapist has placed on the floor in front of her. Molly could almost hear it calling to her and she began to feel the familiar itchy feeling in her fingers. "Yeah alright. I ain't got nothing to lose have I?"

Knowing she would have to face the memories all over again made Molly feel slightly restless and on edge, as if she were a bird trapped in a gilded cage, beating her wings helplessly in a bid to escape and be free whilst the walls slowly close in preventing her escape. Her attention is drawn to the window where the edges of Union Jack are visible as they flutter in and out of the window frame. The unmistakable blue and red merge together as it unfurls gently in the breeze reminding Molly of the once calm blue streams of Afghan as they run crimson red with blood. The therapist, sensing a shift in Molly's mood asks gently, "Molly? What happened at the checkpoint?" Molly's eyes remain fixed on the flag, barely registering her question. As a shaft of light reflects off the window pane, momentarily blinding Molly, her mind's eye sees an entirely different flag fluttering in the breeze against a clear blue sky. Without warning, the walls of the therapist's office melt away and Molly finds herself back at the check point.

Molly finds herself once more treading the warn uneven path of the bridge, the metallic clink of metal rings that bind the flag to the pole echo in her ears as she looks about her remaining alert and focussed as she assesses the terrain for danger. Her stomach twists with unease, the air feels thick with tension as she makes her way towards the truck. She can do nothing but watch helplessly as events unfold in front of her. She's become the heroine of her own nightmare, knowing how the plot of her story unfolds, but is powerless to change an ending that has already been written and set in stone. Molly's body is rigid with tension, the adrenaline surging through her system, quickening her heart beat as her eyes rove over the occupants huddled in the back of the truck, their eyes fixed on the ground as she searches for any trace of the cold calculating eyes of Badrai.

The therapist observes Molly with interest, looking for any signs of distress as her skilled fingers fly across the pages as an unconscious flow of images slowly begin to emerge and take shape on the paper. Some images were fully formed, others were simply shapes and splashes of colour that Molly would leave unfinished in her haste to capture another image her mind has conjured for her. Molly didn't seem to have any control of what came through her pencil next. It was as if the drawings started forming on their own. She didn't fight it or force it, letting the chips fall where they may. At some point Molly had moved from her position on the coach to kneel on the floor, bits of paper scattered around her as the key events of the check point slowly begin to emerge.

Molly's blood runs cold as the sound of a single shot rips through the air, shattering the stillness. A cacophony of sound rises like a tidal wave as the frantic shouts and screams role over each other as soldiers and civilians struggle to find a semblance of order in the chaos. Her hands sketch Smurf's face, rigid with anger, his eyes wild and desperate as he screams words of resentment and hate at his former hero, all semblance of the once rational and professional soldier now gone as he refuses to listen to reason. Next, Molly outlines the cold, calculating gaze of Badrai, the glint of recognition in his eye that has him reaching for his riffle as the air around her begins raining bullets. Her desperate shouts for the Boss come too late and her hand begins to shake as her page is streaked with red and white signifying blood and bone as the bullets tear through the Boss' flesh as if he was made from nothing more than layers of fragile tissue paper.

The therapist leans forward in concern as she watches Molly's hand freeze halfway across the page. The streaks of red come to a jarring holt as the fragile led breaks from the pressure of her hand. It doesn't take a genius to work out what that signifies. Just as she was about to ask her to stop, Molly's hand begins to move again as she traces a figure crawling across the ground, arms outstretched as he grapples for a nearby riffle with the intent to kill. Still Molly's hand keeps moving as her own face, in striking detail, stares back at the therapist from the page in varying shades of blue. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, her gloved hands gripping a hand gun so tightly her knuckles are white. Her green eyes are wide with horror as she stares straight ahead, a haunting realisation in her tear-streaked eyes that leaves the therapist in no doubt as to how the story ends.

"Molly? Stay with me Molly. You're alright." Molly gives a barely susceptible nod as she takes several steadying breath giving herself time to adjust back into the present. She throws the therapist an apologetic smile as she stares in awe at the number of drawings she'd managed to produce in such a short space of time. "I think I better start planting some trees or somethin' ay doc," Molly joked in an attempt to regain her equilibrium.

"Indeed. Though I have to say you are extremely talented. I understand what you mean when you say you focus in on yourself when you draw. You barely moved unless you were reaching for more paper." The therapist reached for a piece of paper and handed it to Molly. "You drew sixteen streaks of red on this piece of paper. Any idea why?"

"It took sixteen seconds for him to rip two bullets into the Bossman and one into Smurf. I don't know how I know that."

"You told Major Beck that if you'd been the one who had gotten shot then everything would be alright. Why do you think that?" Molly sagged against the arm of the sofa as she let her head fall to her knees. "It were all my fault. If I hadn't got involved with Bashira then none of this would have happened. The Bossman and Smurf would be alright, not stuck in hospital with their careers in shreds."

"Molly nobody could have predicted the outcome of that mission. What happened was nobody's fault." Molly looked unconvinced as her eyes drifted to the image of Smurf buried under one of the bridge at dusk before she looked away hastily. "How did you feel at that point?"

"You said earlier that during a traumatic event we might feel hopelessness, horror, fear or guilt yeah? Well if I'm honest I reckon I felt all three."

"How so?"

"I guess I felt fear at not knowing whether we would actually get out of there alive. I know we're meant to act all brave and that but I was absolutely crappin' meself. Guilt, well we've covered that already. I felt helpless watching the two of them lay there stuck in the crossfire knowing I couldn't do anything." Molly broke off quietly, unsure of how to continue. "uhh see it all makes sense in me head and when I draw it, but when you ask me to explain why I drew something I can't find the words. They just ain't there."

"You said you felt helpless. But you forget, without your quick thinking and your ability to stay calm under pressure, there was a very good chance that the two of them wouldn't have made it. You saved them Molly. you were anything but helpless. Don't overlook that." The therapist let that sink in before she asked her next question. "What about horror? Did you feel that at all?" Molly's eyes moved of their own accord to the picture of Badrai and the image of herself aiming the riffle. "I killed him. I shot a man and I didn't even think about it. That bit is still a bit of a blur. I remember bits and pieces but it all gets a bit fuzzy in places."

"That's normal. Do you remember how you felt at the time?" Molly stared down at her hands as she felt the weight of the gun once more in her hands. "It felt like time had suddenly stopped. Like I was frozen in place, unable to move as I waited to see if I'd hit him. I remember feeling cold as the adrenaline left me system as I realised that the shot actually killed him. Then the feeling of horror came when it dawned on me that I'd taken a life. Me! I'm trained to heal not… I barely had any training with the blasted thing. But I'll tell you one thing, in that minute I've never felt so focused or alive. How's that normal?"

"Is that why you chose to shade your portrait in blue? Because you signify those shades with coldness?"

"Yeah I think so. I'd never thought about it until you said it."

"See, you don't realise it but you are actually decoding your drawings and getting to the route of your emotions when you talk me through everything. I know it's hard, but try not to shut others out, especially those who have been though the same things as you have."

"Yeah alright. I'll try."

"That's all I ask Molly." Molly grinned as she stood up to shake the therapist's hand.

"Does that mean you'll tell Beck I ain't mad so I can go back to me duties?" Molly asked cheekily as she gathered her papers and headed to the door. The therapist shook her head as she opened the door for Molly. "I'll see you next week Private Dawes. If you do any more drawings make sure you bring them with you. Ohh and if you're very quick, you still might be able to make the hospital visiting hours. Now off you go."

Molly shifted her sketch pad under her arm as she peered tentatively through the window into the ICU. Her face breaks out into a grin that grows into a brilliant smile when she realises that the Bossman is awake and alert. Catching her eye he jerks his head gently in invitation as she slips quietly inside. "I weren't sure you'd still be awake," She whispers shyly as she comes to stand at the foot of his bed. "I'm not sure I am Dawes. Though if I am dreaming, I'm slightly disappointed about the uniform. I imagined you wearing a uniform of an entirely different kind."

"Oi, less of the cheek Boss," Molly blushed in embarrassment as she reaches to place her hand in his, letting him tug her forward until she settled herself beside him on the bed. They lay in silence, eyes drinking each other in, neither quite believing that the other is there. "What did the doc say?" Molly asked quietly as she laced her fingers with his, careful not to jar his side. "They didn't expect the latest bleed, but so far the signs are all looking good. I'll be glad when I get out of here so I can have a proper wash. I swear I've still got Afghan grime in my hair." Molly chuckled lightly as she reached up to run her hands through his dark curls. "You wrangling for a sponge bath now an all Boss?"

"Charles."

"Charles?" Molly eyed him in amusement at his affronted look.

"You're smirking Dawes. What's so fuckin hilarious about Charles? You can't call me Bossman for the rest of our lives." Molly couldn't hide the look of surprise on her face as she uttered, "Bit previous there weren't you?"

"Ah well it's chemistry." He smirked as he reached out to gently brush her hair aside.

"I failed that." Molly muttered trying to hide a yawn. Charles grinned as he watched her fight to keep her eyes open. "How did it go with the Doc? Please tell me you went?"

"Course I did. I've got an entire book of drawings to prove it. I got a bit lost in me head again though. I think I used an entire tree with the amount of paper I used."

"Do you think it helped?" Molly sighed as she met his reassuring gaze, remembering the advice the therapist had given her. "I think so. She didn't make me talk much which was good. Thank you for giving her the heads up about the drawings by the way. It helped to have something to talk about I s'pose, sort things out in me nut."

"You're welcome," he whispered, seeing her eyes droop. "Hey Dawes?" Molly shifted slightly as she mumbled a sleepy yeah. "Have you ever been to Bath? The city? My parents have an old house there. It's where I grew up." Molly shook her head as she burrowed closer into his warmth. "No but it sounds a bit shit," she murmured. "No it's perfect and before you start, yes perfect does suit you. You'll love the house. It's magical at Christmas I promise." Molly lifted her head to meet Charles' gaze, unsure her sleep addled brain had heard him correctly. "Are you inviting me home for Christmas Boss.. oh sorry Charles?"

"What do you say Dawes? Fancy spending a perfect Christmas with me?"

"Yeah, it would be my pleasure Boss." The two of them drifted off to sleep wrapped in each other's arms, their first peaceful nights rest since they'd returned home.

A/N: Thank you so much for the positive feedback for the first chapter. Some of you have requested a follow up so here it is. Please R and R. you're support and feedback is greatly appreciated.


	3. War paint softened with a brush stroke

War Paint softened with a Brush Stroke

Molly thought there was something oddly therapeutic about sitting outside on the deck in the late evening with a glass of wine as she drew the old, weathered gravestones found in the secluded cemetery opposite her. Her fingers sketched the cracks and shaded the watermarks on the misshaped stones that leant at jaunty angles after battling for decades, sometimes centuries, against the elements. Some stones had eroded so badly over time that the names and dates were no longer visible. They reminded Molly of soldiers as they stood to attention in solemn neat rows; the only reminder left that these people had once walked the earth. For the first time in weeks, Molly felt a calmness and a stillness settle into her nut as her eyes were drawn to the dark churning waters of the Taf estuary that was just visible through the tree line beyond the misty shadows of the cemetery.

With a tired sigh, Molly dropped her pencil and rotated her wrist in an attempt to ease her cramped fingers as she tilted her head back to watch the stars. She hadn't seen this many since Afghan. She loved watching Mother Nature at work as she painted various colours on the black canvas of the night sky; a cocktail of deep velvet indigoes and midnight blues that swirled together like an ink brush in water only for the image be wiped clean ready to be re-painted the next time the sun went down. The only source of light was from a single slither of moonlight peeking out between the trees. The silver orb bathed the water in a pale light dancing off of the water's surface as the waves lapped gently along the shore line. Smurf had been right about one thing, there was something hauntingly beautiful about Laugharne, especially at night. There was a stillness that hung in the air as if time had somehow stood still. The rest of the world ceased to exist outside of the little Laugharne bubble. Molly's only wish was that Smurf was sat enjoying the view with her. But then if he were, then she'd have no reason to be here would she?

Molly presses the heels of her palms against her tired eyes in a bid to stop the barrage of images that began to surface like a tidal wave every time she thought of Smurf. Some wounds of war were still fresh, not yet stitched closed by the healed hands of time. She'd thought everything was fine. That the worst of it was over. Then, just when they thought they were safe, it had all gone to hell in a hand basket. Molly's head was once again filled with the same vivid images that she had spent the last few days desperately trying to transfer onto paper. The drawings and paintings told their own unique story of war. Just when she thought she had come to the end of the story, fate thought it necessary to add one final chapter to their story. It has snuck up on them all and dealt a single devastating plot twist that none of them were expecting.

For Molly, art had become an integral part of the healing process as she tried to deal with everything she'd experienced in Afghan. It enabled her to wash away the Afghan dust from her soul and reveal the scars underneath so they could begin to heal. At first, she had trouble remembering the finer details of what had happened with Smurf at the end, almost as if the events leading up to it had happened to someone else and Molly was watching from afar. During her therapy sessions, Molly had grown increasingly frustrated that she couldn't seem to paint nothing but wide expanses of colour and vague shapes whenever it was brought up. Her work seemed to lack any detail or meaning. She'd lost focus. Molly's therapist had patiently explained that it was because some of the emotions were still to raw, the details to painful for her to remember, so she was blocking it all out until she was ready to deal with it. It wasn't until she and Charles had arrived in Laugharne with the lads to say thier final goodbyes that she was finally able to unlock the last piece of the puzzle; too see the details she had missed clearly for the first time. Since then, she'd painted Smurf's chalky white face as he lay slumped beside the bank after being shot the first time, blood pumping steadily out from under her fist with each beat of his heart. She drew an icy cold hand of fear squeezing her heart in its grasp when she realised that her hand was the only thing stopping him from bleeding out onto the Afghan dust. The helicopter that came to the rescue, Charles' frantic screams scattered into the wind over the roar of the chopper blades. She drew the moment when she found herself caught in the cross fire with not one life-threatening casualty but possibly two as Smurf's dazed eyes met hers as it dawned that he too had been shot.

Molly's fingers now traced over the streaks of red that she had first painted back in the therapist's office. She'd has seen enough red to last her a lifetime thank you very much. It would be a colour forever associated with pain suffering and death. As her eyes turned to her most recent picture, she couldn't help but smile as she hears Smurf's excited voice rise to a roar as he delivers his commentary in her head, his feet a blur of movement as he pushes the football towards his intended destination, his good arm raised wide above his head in celebration when the ball hits its target. He'd looked so happy and care free. Then her eyes are drawn the image she had drawn next to it. She sees him fall to the floor in slow motion. Time stops when it hits her that he is no longer playing the jokester, trying to get the laughs. His vacant eyes stare unseeingly up at the stands as he mumbles incoherently. She barely remembers the ride in the ambulance, but recalls in stark clarity, the look of utter devastation that crosses Candy's face in the hospital corridor when she finally realised that her little boy was gone and her whole world has been blown to smithereens with a single cruel blow. It's a look that will haunt Molly for years to come. Along with Candy's final words of "I gave the army my boys, and they gave me back a flag." As the echo of Candy's voices begins to fade Molly hears another voice, stronger this time urging her to listen as she is pulled from her memories.

"Dawes? Come back to me! Dawes?" Molly blinked until Charles' face swims into sharp focus. It takes her a few seconds to register where she is. Laugharne. Not Newham. Gently she reached a hand to her face and is surprised to feel her fingertips wet with tears. "Where did you go this time my little scribbler?" Charles asked softly as he tucked a throw around her shaking shoulders. Molly's only response was a half-smile before she traced a finger over her sketch, the tears smudging the edges of a gravestone until it bled across the page. "Where do you think?"

"Stupid question? I'm sorry." Molly sighed as she wound her arm around Charles' waist, pulling him closer until he was tucked under the blanket with her. "No I'm the one who's sorry. I don't mean to be such a fuckmuppet it's just….." She trailed off, unable to find the words to express how she felt. She nods down at her page. "I was just sat here minding me own business, drawing the nice scenery when BOOM! these bloody memories surfaced again. Sometimes I wish I could take an eraser to my brain and rub away all the bad shit that keeps going around and around in me nut. I keep seeing Smurf fall over and over. Like one of them little flip book drawing thingies. It flips faster and faster. I know what's gunna happen, how its gunna end just like before but I can't do anything to stop it. I feel like I failed him."

"Hey! You didn't fail anybody. We've been over this. There was nothing you could have done. The bleed was so small. It could have happened anywhere, at any time. At least he made it home Dawes. Nobody blames you. If it was anybody's fault it was mine for not seeing the signs earlier." Molly looked at Charles incredulously. "How do you do that?" At Charles' confused look Molly gestured towards him, a question burning in her green irises. "How is it you always know exactly what to do or say to make me feel better? You're always there when I, or any of the lads need you, willing to shoulder everybody else's burdens as well as your own. You've been my constant, helping me piece myself back together every time I shatter like Humpty bleeding Dumpty. But whose gunna be there to pick you up when you fall? You lost him too, just like the rest of us." Charles smiles sadly as he stares out across the water.

"You." He whispers as he brings his gaze to meet hers. "You _were_ there to pick me up and literally put me back together again after I got shot. I'm alive today because of you. You have helped me deal with Smurf's death by just being here. By talking and drawing. Your art matters Molly. It has helped us all in more ways than you realise. Why do you think the lads were so adamant that you and Dangles set up that art exhibition? Art and photography can go a long way in helping to heal not just you, but others who are struggling to." Charles felt Molly nod against his side softly.

After her first therapy session, her therapist had put her in touch with the Army Arts Society, an organisation who help promote arts and crafts within the British Army. Together with Dangles and other soldiers, they had put together an art and photography exhibition that showcased their work of their experiences of life on the front line. The evening had generated a lot of interest and had been a huge success. "That's why we all came down here this week, to remember the good times we had with Smurf and hope they eventually paint over the bad. It's like I said at the start of the tour. There will be moments you never forget, both good and bad. Lets just make sure we focus on the good ones yeah?" Charles stares thoughtfully down at Molly's drawings. "Sometimes it's ok not to have to be the strong one all the time. You fought so hard to keep it together on tour, stitched us all up and fixed us during the times when we were broken. You've been a rock for Candy since she lost Smurf. You were the only one there. Have you really had a chance to process everything? You don't have to bottle everything up around me. Just like your therapist said, you can let go, it's ok. Just let me in. I quite like playing the knight in shining khaki every now and again. Makes me feel all manly." He joked softly as he pulled Molly closer.

"You do make a very good knight in shining Khaki. You always have. Even without the uniform. From where I'm sitting you ain't got no reason to be complaining about you not being manly. I have come to terms with everything. Honest, or almost anyway. I s'pose it was inevitable that some memories would pop up this weekend, what with us coming down here to scatter his ashes an that. If I'm honest, until a few minutes ago I was actually feeling really calm and relaxed. Me defences are all down. It caught me off guard I guess. It's been a while since I've had any flashbacks that's all."

"I know Dawes. It's natural that today would trigger some bad memories. It has for me to. Of both Smurf and Geraint. All I'm saying is, maybe it's time we think about putting all the bad stuff from Afghan in a little box and shove it under the stairs and start painting some good memories to outweigh the bad. Like the photo of all of you after the Olympics race that Dangles framed for us last week."

"What you mean like painting combat boots marching through rainbows of colour an' shit?" Molly asked dubiously and Charles couldn't help but laugh at her expression. She was adorable when confused. "Well not necessarily. Just maybe not focus on the horrific stuff. How about the lads playing football? Or the Afghan sunsets and star filled skies. The general day to day stuff. Or if you're looking for inspiration, what about the fit blokes that spent their days lounging in paddling pools? All good memories no?" Charles waggled his eyebrows as Molly blushed. "Yes I did indeed see you ogle me Dawesy." Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't know what your talking about mate, I didn't see no fit blokes lounging in any pools. Think you need a check up from the neck up."

"You sure about that Dawes?"

"I am if you think Dangles, Mansfield and that lot look were well fit with their crown jewels hangin' out. Should I be worried?" Charles' mouth dropped as the implications of what he just said dawned on him. Molly couldn't help but dissolve into giggles.

"Very funny Dawes," He grumbled.

"I thought so." At Charles' raised eyebrow Molly smiled sweetly at him as she started rummaging through the loose bits of paper in her sketchpad.

"Alright fair enough. So when you say I should start drawing the good things that happened, do you mean something like this?" Molly asked, triumphantly handing Charles a piece of paper, watching his face light up when he registered what she'd drawn.

"Exactly Dawes. Exactly." Charles smiled softly as he gazed fondly at Molly's sketch on an arm outstretched, a single ray of sunlight bathing the room in a soft glow as it caught the curvy letters of the word Rosabaya written on her forearm, his long fingers enclosed gently around her wrist to keep her in place. Charles reached out to trace a finger over the fabric of her arm where he knew her latest tattoo to be, hidden under all her layers. "See good memories hold a power over us to Dawes. A bit like this place. It's sort of magical in an eerie way. I am glad we decided to stay on for a few extra days though, take a moment to just breathe now that the wild rumpus have left. Still, there is one upside." As Molly raised an eyebrow at his smirk as he nodded in the direction of the cemetery. "Our neighbours are nice and quiet. They wouldn't have been able to complain about all the noise the Cockwombles were making."

"CHARLES!" Molly gasped in shock before choking on a giggle as she took his outstretched hand, allowing him to lead her into the warmth of the indoors and out of the cold. Quite neighbours indeed.

 **A/N:**

 **Thank you for all the kind comments about this story, I'm blown away! This really only started out as a one shot to explore the different ways solider cope after being involved in traumatic situations. I'd come across an article about how art can be used to help treat PTSD that mentioned the army arts society and found it really interesting. I'm really glad so many of you enjoyed the subject area.**

 **The house that Charles and Molly stay in is based on one that does actually exist in Laugharne. I was there not long ago and Smurf is right, it is a lovely place. There really is a little cemetery next door overlooking the bay to.**

 **Please R &R to let me know what you thin**k.


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